As the Starling Said
by Minerva McTabby
Summary: Let other pens dwell on Edmund/Fanny. This is Mary/Maria, in the disagreeable aftermath of Mary/Edmund and Maria/Henry. - Femmeslash. Written for Yuletide 2008.
1. Chapter 1

When the errant Mrs. Rushworth appeared at the door, all alone, Miss Crawford might have been excused for hesitating - for thinking of Henry and all the trouble this woman had caused him already, and would surely continue to cause - but in fact it was after only a moment's consideration that she turned to exchange glances with Lady Stornaway, in the silent yet expressive communication often practised by ladies of long-standing acquaintance, and found there encouragement enough to let her reach out and take Maria's arm, drawing her indoors. After such weeks of agitation, she could not let any fair and sudden chance slip away for want of boldness.

Mary Crawford was not inclined to call it the most agreeable summer she had ever passed. These two months and more, since the events of early May, she had not known a moment's peace; had chatted and smiled, made calls and attended parties - danced - flirted - all by rote, with a mind too greatly perturbed for her to take any real pleasure in the season. Never had she felt so restrained, so confined in the appearance of perfect liberty and felicity. And wherever she went, she was quizzed on all sides, incessantly, about the scandal; even by people she barely knew, who only had to hear the name of "Crawford" to begin the attack, whether by expressions of sympathy or more straightforward curiosity: "her dear brother, they understood, was still in town, and they hoped he was well?" Mary soon developed the habit of speaking a sufficiency of words while telling nothing at all.

Indeed, there was nothing to tell; she had not seen Henry since it all began, though not for any lack of wishing or striving on her part. She had chosen to remain with her friend Flora, Lady Stornaway, as long as possible, and would stay another week, until the Stornaways removed to the country.

Lady Stornaway was far from objecting to Miss Crawford's presence; and, to her credit, this was only partly for the great talking value of hosting the sister of Mr. _Crawford_, who had run off with Mrs. Rushworth! - so very shocking, to be sure. But dear Mary had been two years at school with her; they had learnt the harp together, and come out together; and Mary had been her bridesmaid for the great match which brought her such splendid jewels and carriages and the finest house in Gaunt Square; no, it would be quite impossible for her to send dearest Mary away, no matter what her brother might have done (and if Mary staid, was there not a chance of seeing the brother, before anyone else could do so?); - so thought Lady Stornaway, whose disposition was not unamiable, and whose temper was alternately peevish and merry. Her welcome was heartily seconded by Lord Stornaway, all too ready to be fond of his sweet little wife's charming friend. His lordship was a tall, lean man who laughed at everything and lived for his pleasures; he fancied himself a wit, a rake, a rattle - a fine young dog, though past forty; Mary's estimation of his understanding remained as low as ever, but he was not _too_ unpleasant, after all, as she was forced to remind herself every time he made some low jest or greeted her with a loud "Miss Crawford! I say! View halloo!" - fixing his gaze a good foot below her eyes. - Perhaps the greatest evil, to Mary's mind, was that Lord Stornaway counted Admiral Crawford amongst his cronies; yet even the detested Admiral was almost welcome now, for any news he might bring of Henry.

Henry! His sister was wild to see him, yet his letters, when they came, contained little of substance, and _she_ could not write to _him_, for he gave no address. All she knew was that Mrs. Rushworth remained under his protection, and the two of them were somewhere in London or very close by; they seemed never to remain in one place for long, and never appeared in public. The Admiral swore they were not concealed at any of _his_ properties. Mary would not be deceived by her brother's notes; "he was well enough," indeed! Nonsense; he was miserable, quite miserable, she was certain of it. This could not continue. And what now of her plans, her hopes of persuading him to marry Mrs. Rushworth after the inevitable divorce? How was she to use her influence when Henry would not even see her?

There were moments when she doubted that she _should_ press Henry to make the match; Edmund had seemed so very much against the notion, when last they spoke, and Edmund's absence lent his words the weight of longing keenly felt. But they had met (and parted) at such a bitter time; he had been so distressed! - ten to one but he did not know what he said, nor mean anything by it. Mary would not have it so, being greatly determined to believe that her power over him was not lost, for that was the only unexceptionable compensation for his power over _her_. Let her have but half an hour in his company again, and all would be well; she was quite persuaded of _that_. It could not, must not be otherwise. Lady Stornaway and Mrs. Fraser might teaze her dreadfully about her clergyman lover, but they could not know her thoughts, nor how a hundred memories of Mansfield tormented her, from the moment she had taken his arm for the first time - how his face lit up! she never would forget it - when they had walked and rested together in the park at Sotherton. Edmund's clear, steady gaze - his fine figure - his manner of speaking to her, all tenderness and honour; - in truth, she could not do without these things, and upon the sight of him walking away from her, seemingly forever, she was forced to admit herself in love. So she _must_ marry him, for was that not the only cure for this affliction? - and so she still wished her brother to form a connexion with the family - if not with Fanny Price (oh, why would she not accept him?), then with her cousin.

Her marriage to Edmund must be a more difficult task _now_, following upon the behaviour of their relations; but with all the vigour of a nature which scorned impossibilities, Mary meant to accomplish it. The thought of Edmund pained by their separation - returning to town and seeking her out, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps this week - balanced certain lingering apprehensions about the Miss Owens, and inspired her to devote a great deal of time to her writing-desk, seeking news of him as well as news of Henry. Vexing as it was to find that her letters to Fanny went unanswered, she continued to write, confident that some key word or question should elicit a reply. Being not yet grown desperate enough to flout decorum by writing to Edmund himself, she fixed her efforts on her sister, Mrs. Grant, whose friends in Mansfield village provided Mary with third-hand intelligence. Sir Thomas, they said, was returned to Mansfield Park; Mr. Bertram was recovering from his illness (and here Mary half-sighed, half-laughed at herself for being so glad to hear that Tom was safe, yet regretting the baronetcy, which was to have sweetened the pill); Mr. and Mrs. Yates had returned and been received. And Mr. Edmund Bertram? But there was no news of _him_; he had not been seen in the village at all, of late.

Thus matters stood in the month of July, as Mary prepared to go to her sister, who was happily settling into a comfortable house in Dean's Yard, since Dr. Grant had succeeded to a stall in Westminster. And it was this preferment which gifted Mary with so much new information (and new hopes of happiness) from a part of society previously unfamiliar to her.

_Some_ clergymen, it appeared, could have handsome incomes and live in a more than tolerable manner (especially if their wives had twenty thousand pounds); there was interest and advancement in the Church, as elsewhere. Having set her mind to studying the matter, Mary sought Dr. Grant's guidance and frequented St. George's, Hanover Square till Flora and Janet declared that "no clergyman was safe with Miss Crawford, she had grown so excessively fond of them!" But Mary felt no confusion; only a growing conviction that if she could look forward to becoming a bishop's lady, the baronetcy should not be regretted; - and by July she flattered herself that she could talk of deans and canons, bishops and archdeacons, with as much taste and discernment as any of the Miss Owens. All this was vastly interesting and appealing, and she longed to discuss it with Edmund - if only she could see him, or find some means of communication.

It was a Tuesday evening, and Lady Stornaway was crowning the season with a large dinner; this, and a considerable house-party of cousins staying for several days, brought bustle and animation enough that Mary had grown quite weary of even more stares and questions than usual, and heartily wished the week over and done. The ladies had just gone up to the drawing-room, when the butler approached Lady Stornaway, then came up to Mary and said, "There is a lady at the door, ma'am, asking for you." If they would be so good as to come down and speak with her - for it was very odd, that the lady would neither leave without seeing Miss Crawford nor enter the house to wait on her.

They proceeded downstairs and into the vestibule; the front door opened onto a wet and dirty evening; and there before them stood Mrs. Rushworth, in walking-dress and shawl.

"I have left him," said she, in a quiet voice which seemed to summon each word one by one. But she would not come in, without an invitation expressly given; for the Aylmers had turned her away from their threshold, and her stance conveyed that she would not suffer such treatment twice.

Fortunate Mrs. Rushworth! She was in no such danger, for the two ladies before her were exceedingly ready to take her in. Miss Crawford could not help but notice a strong resemblance between Maria's eyes and those of Mr. Edmund Bertram; while Lady Stornaway saw a veritable treasure-trove of gossip which must on no account be allowed to escape into the night.

"Oh dear! - Do, please, come in - but indeed, there is not a single room to spare - "

"She may share mine," said Mary, linking her arm with Mrs. Rushworth's, her thoughts busy with the provoking consciousness that Henry would never marry her now, and the advantage of persuading the poor bewildered sister to write to her kindest brother as soon as possible. It was almost enough to make one never laugh at Providence again.

Leaving the butler to settle with the hackney coach-man, they passed through the vestibule and were close to the foot of the staircase when several of the gentlemen emerged from the dining-parlour, full glasses in hand, to investigate the commotion at the door. Lady Stornaway at once ran to her husband, and, with a sweetly coaxing smile, raised herself on tip-toe to whisper into his ear. Mary paused to admire how well Flora had learnt to manage her great buffoon, in only three years.

"Mrs. Rushworth, is it now? Well, well," said he; then, as they passed, he added in a very audible whisper to Lord Steyne: "As pretty an adultress as ever I saw, d--n me!" Mary felt Mrs. Rushworth flinch, and restrained a sigh of impatience; upon her soul, the Bertram sisters were always such country girls, _au fond_, with provincial manners and sensibilities; - Maria would have to harden herself to more than one remark of that nature.

"How very unkind of the Aylmers, I can scarcely credit it, and when you think of his cousin and _her_ goings-on, indeed - " Mary kept up a stream of soothing talk as they walked upstairs and the laughter of the gentlemen below faded into curious murmurs from the ladies peering out of the drawing-room; - they went on, at last reaching Mary's apartment and allowing Mrs. Rushworth to sink into a chair in the small sitting-room overlooking the square. "And have you really nothing with you? What of your clothes, your - ?" Intolerable, of course, but easily remedied; Lady Stornaway would fetch her sister this instant - "they were of a size, surely - Miss Crawford's things would not do, she being so small, and Mrs. Rushworth had such a fine figure, so tall as she was, almost of a height with Mr. Crawford - oh dear! Indeed, she would go this instant." (Exit Lady Stornaway.)

The next half-hour was all bustle, as Mary called for food and drink, received the borrowed clothing when it came, but closed her door to Flora and Janet, fearing that their well-meaning questions and exclamations might agitate her visitor and hinder her purpose; - and Mrs. Rushworth sat through it all as if stupefied, making little or no response if addressed. When Mary thought to have hot water brought to her dressing-room, Mrs. Rushworth was finally persuaded to remove her mud-spattered gown and accept a maid-servant's assistance in bathing, then to don a dressing-gown and take a reviving cordial, though she would eat nothing.

Surveying her guest, Mary thought that she looked very well, all things considered; her beauty had not failed her, she had lost none of her bloom, despite evident low spirits and the silence which was so unlike herself. Would she take tea? Did she wish to sleep? "Ha! Now I am playing Cottager's wife to your Agatha, it seems," said Mary gaily, but the allusion failed to cheer, eliciting only a sigh.

Once again, Mary reflected on the folly of these past months; not only her brother's folly, but that of the woman before her, whose education must have been sadly mismanaged by the indolent mother and the officious aunt - imagine never giving the sisters a season in London! - and never teaching them how a great deal of unpleasantness in marriage (to say nothing of divorce) might readily be avoided, if everything were done as it should be. While Mary had no intention of taking a lover herself, after she married Edmund, she could thank her dear departed Aunt Crawford for not leaving her as ignorant as _some_ wives clearly were.

"My dear Mrs. Rushworth - Maria - you may rely on me, I do assure you - but will you not tell me of your plans?" Nothing, still nothing. "What has happened? And Henry - " Maria gazed at the floor. "But do you know anything of Mansfield? Do you plan to return? Your eldest brother is almost well again, and your sister, Mrs. Yates - perhaps you have not heard, she is quite forgiven! So if you were to write - that is, your father might - "

"My father!"

"Oh, I do not mean you must write to _him!_ But should you not write to your brother - your brother Edmund? Surely he would speak for you! Yes, I do urge you, write to him without delay - that is, if you do not mean to return to Henry?"

Mrs. Rushworth laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "I hate him," said she, "for he made me beg! - and still, to no avail! - and may he rot before I see him again."

"Perhaps he fancies that he paid too high a _Price_ for you."

Mary's temper had flared at Maria's abuse of her brother, but she rather regretted the last remark, when she saw its effect on Maria's eyes. Perhaps there was still some chance of a marriage, in spite of everything? She must know. "Forgive me - I do not mean to be unkind, indeed - I believe I can imagine your feelings - "

"You cannot," said Maria, her voice quite cold, "but perhaps you will - Yes, I think I shall wish _that_ for you, Miss Crawford! - that one day you may know exactly how I feel."

A silence lay between them after that, until Mary recollected herself sufficiently to ask after her brother again, in a tone only slightly strained by the effort of civility.

"He is gone to Everingham," was the dispirited reply; then, after a pause, "And I did not know - I could not think what to do - Oh, I should not have come here! - You care for him, you shall only side with him - "

"Oh, but I do assure you - "

"And you have _such_ a look of him! - your eyes, your voice - No, leave me be!"

But Mary caught hold of her hands and insisted that she should calm herself; - she was overwrought, she should sleep - yes, that would be much the best thing now, she repeated in a low, soothing voice, guiding her guest into the bed-room, and all the while reminding herself that she could and would put up with _anything_, even Mrs. Rushworth's temper, for the sake of bringing Edmund to town and furthering her plans for him.

Mary's will prevailed; at last the room was silent, the bed-curtains drawn, and she was free to return to the drawing-room, finding that two hours had passed and the company was beginning to break up; sufficient numbers remained, however, to form a small but attentive crowd of listeners as she delivered a reassuring report to Lady Stornaway and the rest of her friends. - "Was Mrs. Rushworth well? Would she not come down at all? What of Mr. Crawford, was he well? Was he to be expected?" - Mary duly informed them that Mr. Crawford was gone into Norfolk and not expected to return immediately (a general murmur at that), while Mrs. Rushworth required rest and quiet. All expressed their gladness, while remaining disappointed not to see the scandalous and universally talked of lady come downstairs with Miss Crawford at once, to be properly looked at by everyone, and talked of further. "Would she come down for breakfast to-morrow?" - Miss Crawford thought she would not. "Did she require anything? Would she walk in the gardens? Should not the apothecary be sent for? Would she care to be driven anywhere?" - Miss Crawford did not venture to say. "Would she dine with them? Yes, she must certainly dine with the family to-morrow evening!" Miss Crawford demurred, but was finally persuaded; - yes, she would undertake to see that Mrs. Rushworth appeared downstairs for dinner. She thought it no bad thing, in truth; Mrs. Rushworth could not hope to remain behind closed doors forever, and her hosts did have some claim on her, as they had on Mary herself, who was content enough to sing for her supper by making herself agreeable and amusing.

It was some time before she could go back upstairs, and longer still before she went to bed; for even after changing into her nightgown and sending her maid away, Mary lingered at the window, her mind too full of hope and misgivings to let sleep come easily. She would certainly write to Henry in the morning, though she hardly knew what to say - and as for the other - If she were careful, and clever - if nothing interfered - she might see Edmund within the week, and have all the credit of restoring "his poor lost sister" to his care, being the means of reuniting them; - would that not be enough to repair their intimacy, to compensate for whatever he had so misliked in her, that terrible day in May? It must be enough.

She turned away from the window, picked up a candle, and moved slowly into the bed-room; parted the curtains and stood silently there, for long moments, watching her troublesome visitor sleeping in the candle-glow: yes, the gentlemen seemed to like it well enough, this soft honey-haired style of beauty, quite unlike Mary's own. - But how far, how very far to fall! - the handsome Mrs. Rushworth, mistress of Sotherton, with a splendid house in town and the enjoyment of twelve thousand a year! Now come to these sad straits, through her own folly; - yet still proud as Lucifer, for all that - not a word of thanks had Mary heard from her all evening! - And this selfish, silly woman would cost Henry at least three or four thousand pounds when Mr. Rushworth (urged on by his dear Mamma) brought a case against him in preparation for the divorce. Mary could not think of it without a sigh, as she blew out the candle and lay down upon her bed.

Maria stirred, a warm half-wakeful presence in the dark, turning - there was a sound, a waiting silence; - and the next moment Mary was astonished to find herself most passionately embraced, and caressed, and called _Henry, my Henry!_ The suddenness of these attentions overpowered her at first, and she lay motionless beneath them, Maria's breath warm against her throat, her cheek; but then, feeling an answering fire rise within her, she willed her arms to move and return the embrace, scarcely knowing what she did. It was madness! But then her mouth found Maria's, and she _felt_ the other woman's consciousness return - knew the very moment of awareness when Maria woke to embracing the sister, not the brother! - a hesitation, a slight drawing-back, but _only_ slight. In a single blessed instant she was returning Mary's kisses with a desperate energy which only stoked the blaze. They touched, they moved. They burned together. Mary was not entirely unfamiliar with such pleasures between women, but never, never had she known them with such fierce intensity: a perfect wilderness of wanting, of sheets and nightgowns thrust aside, of hands and lips exploring in darkness without constraint; - and then she found herself caught in helpless motion, over and over, irresistibly, a long smooth thigh clasped tightly between her own, dimly aware that Maria did the same, until - ah, _until_ and at last! - such ease, such gentle ease.

No speech passed between them. Maria uttered a broken sound and drew away, huddling into herself; Mary, still flushed and bewildered, made no attempt to speak.

(TBC)


	2. Chapter 2

Neither was anything said about the night's doings when they breakfasted together on Wednesday morning, not leaving Mary's rooms.

Maria seemed an altered creature by daylight. Mary, determined to make her speak (and write the all-important letter), cancelled her own engagements and did not quit the house that whole day, devoting herself to her companion's service and amusement. It was no easy task. She faced a cold, withdrawn Mrs. Rushworth who barely uttered a word - would not sit down cards - did not care to read or take up any needlework - but paced the room all morning and sat by the window all through the afternoon, sunk deep in her melancholy reflections. No hint or stratagem succeeded in making her write to Edmund.

"But what," said Mary, driven to bluntness, "do you mean to _do_, if not to approach your family? You would not seek a new protector now - "

"How do you know that I would not?" The words were all defiance, but Mary did not believe her; there spoke the spoilt, sheltered Miss Bertram! - knowing not what she said, nor what such a life would be for her. Well, perhaps she would learn.

In the end, Mary had more success in persuading Mrs. Rushworth to dress for dinner. While reluctant at first, Maria knew as well as anyone what was due to her hosts; good breeding carried the point; she submitted to being dressed in one of Mrs. Fraser's gowns, and accompanied Mary downstairs.

Mary was never to forget that dinner. On entering the drawing-room, she was surprised and somewhat disconcerted to find that it was not to be a family evening, after all; no, for Lord Stornaway had invited several guests - including some of his most disreputable friends. As Admiral Crawford advanced to greet her, Mary maintained her composure; submitted to being called his "dearest niece" and chucked under the chin, as always; - but her thoughts leapt to a swift conclusion: their host had promised the company a close look at "the adultress" taking refuge in his home. Mrs. Rushworth was to be the evening's chief entertainment.

It was in no sanguine mood that she sat down to table, and by the time the ladies withdrew, Mary had progressed from being disconcerted to being most extremely vexed - chiefly owing to the suspicion that the Admiral might be seeking a new mistress. The pointedness of his attentions to Mrs. Rushworth was something that Mary could not like.

They proceeded up to the drawing-room - Lady Stornaway, Mrs. Fraser, Miss Crawford, Mrs. Rushworth, and two or three other ladies whose names are of no consequence to this narrative - and then it was not so very dreadful, after all; a vast deal of staring, a few blunders, a couple of questions bordering on impudence; but no one actually cut Mrs. Rushworth, who held up her head most admirably through it all. Mary's temper cooled as her spirits rose. All seemed tolerably well, until the gentlemen joined them.

Lord Stornaway paused for a quiet word to his wife, before turning to gather several gentlemen for cards; Lady Stornaway whispered something to her sister, then approached Mrs. Rushworth and, with many a coaxing smile, entreated her to play for the company. No objection could be raised. Mrs. Rushworth sat down to the piano-forte most amiably, while Mrs. Fraser continued sorting silks at the table, and Mary produced a few appropriate raptures in response to another lady's album. Everyone appeared to settle in for a delightful evening. Nothing could conceal, however, a certain pattern in the movements of the gentlemen; - one by one, they came up to the piano-forte and circled it at a measured pace, their eyes fixed boldly on the performer and their thoughts seemingly far from musical. As each gentleman withdrew, another would replace him, and their conference over the card-table was of a nature which the ladies surely could not have failed to censure, had they perceived it; but the ladies remained most charmingly and conveniently deaf to everything. Only Mrs. Rushworth, trapped at the piano-forte, was observed to change colour, and the observation merely added to the merriment of the whole party.

Since something of this sort was only to be expected, and it was mild enough, Mary kept her place and looked on. She looked on, coolly at first, then not coolly at all, until she could bear it no longer. When the Admiral moved very close to Mrs. Rushworth - hovering over her, leaning on the instrument - Mary found herself rising before she knew it, and offering her own music, "if Mrs. Rushworth would excuse her" - yes, Mrs. Rushworth admitted she was glad to rest; and Mary was aware of a grateful gaze following her as she went to the harp.

It was a very fine harp, lately ordered from Erard for Lady Stornaway; a pleasure to play, since Mary's own instrument remained with Mrs. Grant. Her fingers flew in the liveliest of Irish airs. She played on, secure in the consciousness of how well she looked, so gracefully posed, her arms appearing to advantage; at leisure to observe the next little conspiracy taking shape in nods and winks amongst the gentlemen, aided and abetted by Lady Stornaway and her sister. This time, it appeared, everyone else was to remain in place, and only Mrs. Rushworth was to move. She had taken a seat in a corner, and clearly hoped to be allowed to keep it; - but she was summoned almost immediately by one lady, then another, with a dozen fluttering pretexts to keep her in motion, all stopping just short of anything she might refuse without discourtesy: "if she would be so good as to take this thread to Mrs. Fraser" - and "would she kindly hold this candle a moment - a little higher, if it is no trouble" - and "could she turn this way a moment, and come to look at this delightful picture" - and so on, with every movement drawing increasingly audible commendations from the card-table.

Mrs. Rushworth walked, turned, and was looked at. Mary played, watched, and grew ever more angry as Maria's wretchedness increased. And when the Admiral stopped Maria as she passed by the card-table - when he _touched her arm_ and whispered to her - the harp-music ended abruptly on a broken note: - Mary was there in three strides, just in time to catch half a remark about "my nephew" which had made Maria blush scarlet and turn away.

"You will excuse us, sir," said Mary, taking Maria's arm; then, after casting a glance over the rest of the company, she looked the Admiral straight in the eye and said: "The air in _here_ agrees with neither of us. I fear we must wish you good night." And she swept out of the room, her heart racing, to lead Maria back upstairs.

When they returned to her rooms, Mary at first could not think of what to say. "I should apologise for our hosts - " But that would not do, when Maria stood so very still, as if beaten down by the consciousness and consequences of her ruined reputation. "You held up well, I thought - " And even that would not do; Maria had been magnificent in the drawing-room, supported only by her pride, but now she looked fragile and alone. "I am sorry that I took you down to them! And I cannot think of any apologies - it was abominably cruel to treat you so."

"Is this what you meant," said Maria, half-turning, "when you said I might seek a new protector?"

"No!" cried Mary, though indeed it might have been; but now, the notion of the Admiral and Maria - no, it was insupportable. She had thought that Maria must harden herself to such things, being what she was; but the catch, the catch! - Mary perceived that she herself could not bear to see, or even imagine, _this_ woman subjected to such treatment.

It was then that Maria drew close to her and raised a hand to touch her cheek. "I forgot it all," said she, "last night, for those few minutes, I could forget it all!" Her long fingers brushed Mary's throat in a slow, deliberate caress. "Make me forget again," she whispered; - and then they were kissing again, stumbling into the bed-room and falling onto the bed in each other's arms, hardly knowing or caring where they fell; and this time there was candle-light and leisure for looking, and Mary would not be denied until she had removed _all_ of Maria's garments, one by one, casting gown and stays and stockings all aside until Maria was stretched on the bed in all her fairness, clad only in her blushes and reaching out for yet another tender touch. She did not have long to wait.

Mary could not be wondered at for thinking of Henry as her hands explored Maria's figure; - only two days ago, this woman had shared his bed - and how he must have enjoyed all this proud abundance laid out before him! It would be something new, she thought, and quite diverting - to talk of Mrs. Rushworth with Henry, afterwards, perhaps to compare. - But now she murmured praise and fondness as her fingers traced every curve of satin-skin, delighting in each gasp and cry, giddy with her own pleasure in following her brother's path, all the way to - _there_, there: oh, Henry must have found it a snug little nest indeed, for all the trouble it brought him! These sounds Maria made now - had she sung as sweetly for him? Had she arched up from the pillows, wide-eyed and imperious, demanding _more_ and _now_? And never a _please_, oh no, not from this haughty fool who had ruined herself and well-nigh ruined Henry; - well, then, she should wait and be teazed! Mary's hands moved again, inside and out, and _in_, and then she _stopped_, stopped until Maria was writhing, and then laughed at her, saying: "Well, it _was_ the avenue leading to Sotherton - but now its _Price_ is fallen." But when Maria would have pulled away in sudden anger, Mary said "forgive me" and replaced her fingers with her mouth; and then there were no more complaints, or intelligible words, from Mrs. Rushworth.

It was only afterwards, and suddenly - cutting up the languor of their rest - that Maria began to weep; none of Mary's soft words could stop her then, nor any attempts at distraction or reassurance, for "hush" and "rest" and "remember when?" only made her raise her head and say: "I have more to think of now." - And the tears continued unabated, great ugly sobs shaking her form until, a long while later, she stilled into sleep. Mary could only hold her and wonder at all this weeping, even as her own sensibilities reeled in an unfamiliar conflation of pity, sorrow, and desire.

The next two days passed in much the same manner. "Make me forget again," one would say; or, "Shall I make you forget?" the other would ask; and so they forgot themselves in each other, over and over again. Mrs. Rushworth may have thought of Mary's brother on occasion, and Miss Crawford did occasionally think of Mr. Edmund Bertram - how strongly his sister resembled him at times, or how very delightful it would be to have _him_ kneeling before her like this; more often, however, she thought only of Maria and Maria thought only of her.

Mary was forced to go out for a few hours on Thursday morning, since certain calls simply could not be put off, but all her other engagements remained cancelled as she staid in her apartment. Neither of them dined downstairs again. When Mary came down, rarely, she was very cool to Lord and Lady Stornaway; although they failed to comprehend her displeasure, she greatly looked forward to leaving their house, and was glad to receive a note from her sister confirming that a new home would be ready to welcome her next week.

Upon the whole, Mary was happy; only puzzled to find herself increasingly disinclined to see Maria leave - not even if this should be the occasion for bringing Edmund to London, as her plans dictated. She found herself, at odd moments, searching and grasping for some impossible way to keep Maria at her side; wondering if she could beg a favour from Dr. Grant - no, there was no chance at all, there. But when she and Edmund were married, could he be persuaded to allow Maria to live with them? She continued, in the meanwhile, to press Maria to write to Edmund - and really thought she was making some progress; tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, Maria _would_ write and he would come to them! Mary's spirits rose at the thought. It was too bad of her (though she could hardly regret it) to be so happy when Maria was so miserable; but Mary could not speak to Maria of her attachment to Mr. Edmund Bertram.

And Maria - poor Mrs. Rushworth - what was she thinking amidst all this? Each night for many weeks now, she had fallen asleep with only one wish in her heart: that she might somehow wake to find herself Miss Bertram again, with limitless prospects before her and all her choices yet unmade. Each morning, she woke to nightmares. There was no choice now; nothing for her to do but return to Mansfield Park. Henry Crawford did not love her - had never loved her, _never_. She had deceived herself, built mustard-seeds into mountains, building on "if he did so and so, he _must_" - only to see them collapse into dust, every one. But oh! the relief of never having to see James Rushworth again, or listen to him talk!

She did not know how to think of it, what to make of it - this strange attachment to Mary Crawford - but knew it could not last. She could not stay with Mary, the sister of Henry! Truths, too insistent and brutal to escape, would no longer allow her to deceive herself. The child growing within her would not allow it.

And so, when Mary went out on Thursday morning, Maria sat down at Mary's writing-desk and wrote to a person who loved to be of use; - the only person whom she could always be sure of being able to command; the only one wholly loyal to _her_, not to Sir Thomas or Mr. Rushworth or Mr. Crawford. She asked her to come at once.

It was early on Saturday evening, and the Stornaways were dining with the Frasers that night; Mary had gone to Lady Stornaway's apartment with the idea of borrowing some of her novels for Maria: stories which might divert her without reminding her of anything too painful. Flora was a great (if undiscerning) reader of novels, and Mary took her time considering, chusing, and discarding. - No, not _that_ one; the hero's name was Henry. - Ah, these two novels "by a lady" would have been _perfect_, Mary had greatly enjoyed them herself, but no, they would not do: in one, the family's youngest daughter eloped with a rake; in the other, a natural daughter of a runaway wife was seduced and abandoned; - Mary wondered in some exasperation whether this particular Authoress was capable of writing a novel _without_ referring to such matters. - In the end, she settled upon _Mysteries of Udolpho_ (dear Mrs. Radcliffe, always so horrid and wholesome), and was just turning to go, when a maid-servant approached to inform her that a lady had called to see Mrs. Rushworth, and had been shown up to Mary's apartment, since Mrs. Rushworth would not come down.

The books were dropped and left; wondering, Mary hastened back to her rooms - to find there the very last person she had expected to see.

Mrs. Norris, looking thinner and ten years older, was embracing her niece with all her strength, calling her "my poor dear Maria" and exclaiming over her. The niece did not appear entirely displeased with the performance.

"My aunt is come to take me back to Mansfield," said Maria calmly.

"Oh yes, my dear! And you shall come to my little house first, of course, and I have brought your old gowns, just as you asked, so you may rest and be comfortable. And then I shall speak with my sister and Sir Thomas - dear Sir Thomas! - I know he must have seemed a little unreasonable of late, but when I have explained things to him, surely we shall see - "

Mary, still motionless in the doorway, looked at Maria. "But you were going to write to - to your brother Edmund - were you not?"

"You do not know him," replied Maria, "indeed, you do not know my brother, if you think such a thing could be done. He is a _clergyman_ through and through! He would not speak for me to my father - never." She turned to Mrs. Norris, with a small cool smile. "So I have written to one who loves me - is that not so, ma'am? - and is always glad to attend me."

"I travelled post - _at my own expense_," said Mrs. Norris solemnly.

"There, do you see how she loves me? How useful she is?" Maria's arch smile seemed to invite Mary to share the joke, but her manner was quite serious. "Your pardon, now - I will change my gown - I shall be but a moment - " Before Mary could find words to speak to her again, Maria had disappeared into the dressing-room.

Left alone with Mrs. Norris, Mary disregarded her and sank into a chair, endeavouring to comprehend how everything could have changed like this, all at once. Mrs. Norris, for her part, was not inclined to indulge in chit-chat with Miss Crawford - the sister of that _villain_ who had seduced and ruined her dearest Maria! - no, she might be only a poor widow, but she had her principles; - she would be polite to Miss Crawford only so far as a natural deference to twenty thousand pounds required, and not one jot more. But her artless pleasure would get the better of her, and she could not help observing how delightful it would be to have Maria home again - "quite like old times! - she hardly knew Mansfield any more, it was so sadly _altered_ - why, there was _another niece_ living on their charity! and dear Mrs. Yates was gone off with her husband, and Tom was always with Sir Thomas now - "

"And what of Mr. Edmund Bertram?" asked Mary. She had to ask.

"Edmund! Oh, Miss Crawford, you would not know him. So quiet, so distracted - indeed, he does nothing but walk in the park with _Fanny Price_, of all people, and what they have to talk about, while they sit under trees, I truly cannot imagine - "

But Mary was no longer listening. She surged to her feet and gazed at nothing, as one thought, one image - walking with Edmund, walking in the park! - rent her thoughts asunder in an instant. She froze, she doubted; and then she _saw_ what she had never seen before; as if she had been putting a map of Europe together, and someone had come along and rearranged the pieces to show her a whole new world. Edmund and Fanny Price! Now memory played tyrant, showing her a hundred glimpses of what she had never understood at the time. Why, Miss Price had been in love with her cousin all along! Finally, Mary understood why Henry's offer was refused so insistently, for so long. No, he had never had a chance of succeeding with Miss Price! And Miss Price had turned out to be a better actress than any of them, in the end. Mary was forced to admit that she herself, in all her cleverness and confidence, had been completely taken in; - and now she saw what _would be_, and did not know how to bear it. Did Edmund know his happiness yet?

"And Fanny is quite useless now, good for nothing - bone-idle! Of course, this whole sad affair is entirely her fault! Why would she not accept - "

"Would you wait for me downstairs, dear aunt? I shall be down directly." Maria emerged from the dressing-room, in her own gown and pelisse. The three women stood quite still for a moment, exchanging glances; then Mrs. Norris nodded her farewells and hurried away.

Looking at Edmund's sister, perhaps for the very last time, Mary spoke the only thought in her aching, bewildered head: "Such collars have not been the fashion these two years, at least," she said, touching Maria's collar, resting her fingers against Maria's throat.

"I know," was the reply. Maria smiled, and smiled again when Mary tried to ask her not to leave. "I must," she said. Then she kissed Mary good-bye, and it was unlike any other kiss Mary had ever known; though she was not sure if she wanted it to never end or never to have begun.

And then Mrs. Rushworth parted from Miss Crawford, and accompanied her aunt to a nearby inn; and next morning they set out together for Northamptonshire.

Much later, Mary learnt that Maria never succeeded in coming closer to home than Mrs. Norris's spare room in the White House across the park. Sir Thomas was not to be persuaded, no matter what Mrs. Norris may have said in pleading her case. When Maria and Mrs. Norris removed together to a cottage in Shropshire, none of the family came to wave them farewell - not even Fanny Price, soon to become Mrs. Bertram.

Miss Crawford, however, took to spending part of every summer in Shropshire. Her brother never understood - but she did not explain, and he never asked.

-End-

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**A/N:** Written for the Yuletide 2008 "obscure fandoms" fic exchange, in response to a request for Mary Crawford femslash. Includes slight allusions to _Vanity Fair_ by William Makepeace Thackeray: Gaunt Square, Lord Steyne. The two novels "by a lady" are _Pride and Prejudice_ and _Sense and Sensibility_.

Disclaimer: the world of Mansfield Park is Jane Austen's creation, not mine.


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